


The Wandering Hour

by Distracted



Category: Leverage
Genre: Episode: s03e08 The Boost Job, Friendship, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:19:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27294814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distracted/pseuds/Distracted
Summary: Eliot gets clipped by a car on a job. Sophie lends a helping hand.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	The Wandering Hour

The Wandering Hour

He's pretty sure he can't get up. He's also pretty sure that nothing is broken, but it doesn't make him feel a single bit better. Between the car and the fall into the freezing water, his muscles have decided to go on strike, to seize up and he knows it's going to be one of the rare times it'll take drugs to get him moving again. Or sufficient other motivation, he thinks, because nothing would stop him if his team was in danger. 

But there's no danger, just a quiet apartment, down in the wee hours of the morning and he shifts, just enough to reach the earbud in his pocket, teeth clamping down savagely on his bottom lip as every muscle in his back protests even that small movement. The spasm is so intense that it steals his breath away for a long moment and when he opens his eyes, Sophie is watching him with a sad, worried frown. She wears printed silk pyjamas, and her feet are bare. 

"What do you need?" she asks simply, and because there's no judgement in her voice, he can answer. 

"My kit," he says, keeping his voice soft and she nods, padding away. 

She won't touch him, unless he asks, unlike Parker, who would have poked his bruises by now. He's glad of it because he feels like he might shatter, like a dropped wine glass, if someone touches him right now. 

He needs pills, a long hot shower and to move, to get his muscles loosened up again before he'll be able to bear anyone touching him. 

"Here," she says and rests his bag on the couch next to him, setting herself down next to it so gently he barely feels the seat move. "What do you need?" 

"Toradol, green and white box," he says and closes his hand around the small pill. "And Tylenol." 

"I have some in the kitchen." She stands and heads that way, returning with the tablets and a tall glass of chocolate milk. 

His eyebrow quirks at that. "Parker might kill us for stealing her drink," he says as he accepts the glass, swallowing the pills with a gulp of the rich beverage. It slides down easy and he realises that he can't remember the last time he ate. He finishes the glass, making a mental note to buy her a replacement bottle. 

"I'm sure you can take her," Sophie says, smiling as she tugs the blanket off the back of the couch so she can throw it over him. "Do you need anything else?" she asks. 

He hesitates. The pills haven't started to work quite yet, but he can feel a sticky spot just under his shoulder blade and he's pretty sure he's bleeding. "If you can spare twenty minutes," he starts, softly, "could you have a look at something for me?" If it had been anywhere else, he would have managed himself, but he knows there's no way to reach. 

"Of course." She settles back on the couch, drawing her legs up, studying him through her lashes. 

The muted lights are kind to him, hiding the shadows under his eyes, but they're not doing anything for the tight muscle in his jaw that keeps jumping. Out of all the team, he asks for the least and she's happy to help. His eyes are closed and she thinks he's dozing until she leans forward, reaching to tuck the blanket in a bit tighter, and he turns his head, one arm lifting a little to ward her off. 

"Sorry," she says, finding herself slightly lost for words. "You looked cold." It's a simple statement of fact but it makes him look away and she can't quite figure out why. 

"I should know better. Should have kept moving about," Eliot says, ruefully. "Damn rookie trick, ending up like this."

"We can't all be perfect all of the time," Sophie says, with just the right inflection in her voice. 

It takes him by surprise, startles a laugh out of him. "Well, ain't that the truth," he agrees, and the laughter hasn't quite drained out of his voice. 

She likes hearing it there- it makes him seem younger, less burdened by his self perceived sins. "How do you feel?" 

He hesitates, gingerly rolling his shoulders and lets out a quiet but heartfelt sigh of relief. He's still stiff - that won't go away until he gets up and moving - but the painful tension in his muscles has gone. "Better." It's still not exactly comfortable as he eases the blanket off his legs and stands, but he's on his feet at least and that's better than where he was half an hour ago. 

"Kitchen?" she asks and he nods, turning slowly to pick up his bag. 

Sophie waves him off and picks it up herself, following him towards the big table. It bothers her, that they have a routine for this sort of situation. "Doesn't this bother you?" She's not really sure where the question is coming from and it clearly takes Eliot by surprise. 

"Better me than one of you," he says simply, like that's how it just has to be for him to do his job. He shrugs and turns one of the dining chairs around, so he can rest his arms on the back while she works, then pulls his tshirt over his head to expose his back. It sticks to his skin, pulling away in painful inches, and he almost shudders because he hates the feeling. 

She sets their normal first aid kit out on the table and flips it open, slipping on a pair of gloves before she touches his shoulder, lightly, sucking in a slightly appalled breath. 

"Jesus Christ, Eliot!" she mutters, and he figures the damage is really starting to show. 

His back is covered in bruises, some so deep she doesn't doubt that he'll be wearing them for weeks. Others are just coming out, brown-red and orange-purple rather than the almost black of the worst. There's a shallow slice underneath his shoulder blade that's still oozing blood.

"Looks worse than it is," he says, with a one sided shrug. 

"Yes, you would say that because you can't see the state of your back!" She mutters but there's no real heat in it. 

She grabs a wound wipe and draws it over the slice, feeling him suck in a pained breath at the sting. 

"How many stitches?" he asks. 

"None," Sophie says, "But I'm going to pop a few butterfly bandages over, just in case." 

There's at least three more cuts on his back and she repeats the steps. 

She tapes a dressing over the last, using more tape than necessary, because she knows what he's like, and steps back, stripping the gloves off. "All done." 

"Thank you," he says, turning as much as he can to face her. His bag has a charge of clothes and pulls out a clean t-shirt, knowing the one he's just taken off is fit only for the bin. 

"I'm going back to bed," Sophie says. "Take the couch. Don't drive home." 

He hadn't been planning on it but to have his idea so neatly validated makes him smile. He gets his good hand on the table and levers up, dumping the rubbish in the bin on the way past.

The thick fleece blanket is still on the couch and he eases down on his back, drawing it over him. He can't remember closing his eyes, but for once he sleeps right through until dawn.


End file.
